


This Bright Metal Season

by Laine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F, F/M, Future Fic, LGBTQ Female Character, Past Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Physical Disability, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-05-16 17:08:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19322479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laine/pseuds/Laine
Summary: After the conquest of Dorne, the execution of Aegon the Pretender, and the coronation of the Dragon Queen, Myrcella Baratheon finds herself summoned to Winterfell to live as Lady Sansa Stark's ward...and to reunite with her "uncle", Jaime Lannister, now the Lady of Winterfell's Lord Commander.Future fic, book-verse.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yeppppp, I'm gonna try another WIP! We'll see how long this lasts...keep your fingers crossed for me!
> 
> The story title comes from "Gold Mouths Cry" by Sylvia Plath.

_King’s Landing stands on cursed ground._

 

A once-princess steps out into the thaw of early spring, onto a breezeway where she once chased butterflies with her little brother- _dead now. Dead like everyone. Like everything._

 

Myrcella squints against the sun.  The spikes still rise above the gates; empty now, for the Dragon Queen does not need to remind the people of the reach of her power.  Her blood, her dragons, her legacy: they speak for themselves.

 

She shivers, both with memory and with cold; she continues to wear the light silks of Dorne, which resemble Daenerys’ eastern fashions closely enough that no one speaks to her of impropriety.  Myrcella wears the ring that Trystane gave her, a gold ring with the emblem of Sunspear etched into the metal, but she turns it until only the band is visible. When she clenches her fist, the imprint of the arrow-pierced sun appears on the skin of her palm.  

 

It hurts to remember them, hurts to imagine the hot, sandy city as a ruined crater, a blemish on the southern tip of the land.  But after House Martell pledged allegiance to Aegon the Pretender, after the Stormborn swept down from the North to annihilate her rivals, it could have ended no other way.  

 

(If not for Uncle Tyrion, Casterly Rock would have ended the same: just a pile of pebbles, sliding one by one into the sea.)

 

She wears no veil, and the wind pulls persistently at her braided hair.  A hand rises to clap over the vacancy at the side of her head: smooth skin surrounding a deep, clean hole.  Myrcella always takes care to sweep her golden hair to this side, to pin it over the space so no one need ever see.  

 

There is nothing to do for the scars.  She scolds herself daily for her vanity, reminds herself that enough years have passed that she should be used to them.  She sometimes spends entire afternoons sitting in front of a mirror, forcing herself to look, to burn the sight of ruined skin into her mind, to forget what she ever looked like when her face was whole and perfect.  

 

When she stands here, looking out at this land that once was her home and the home of her family- _hallowed ground-_  she always feels that she should pray.  But then she begins to run a list in her mind, and there are just too many people to mourn-

 

_MotherFatherGrandfatherTommenDoranTrystaneArianne...._

 

She hears a voice- surely shouting, but she can hear only the vaguest of murmurs- beckoning her inside.

 

Myrcella turns away from the cloudless sky and approaches her uncle.  Tyrion speaks while at the same time moving his hands purposefully- her hearing weakens a bit more every day, and as much as she resented it at first, the gesture language helps-

 

“Lady Brienne is waiting.  Time to leave, sweetling.”

 

* * *

 

She hadn’t known what to expect when her uncle brought her from the ruins of Dorne to the Dragon Queen’s court.  Would she be tried as a traitor and offered to the dragons, like so many before her? Tyrion assured her that her life was not in danger, but how could he know?  Why should she believe it?

  
But when she stepped before Daenerys Targaryen, the Queen- just a little thing, short and wispy and ethereally pretty- only welcomed her as a kinswoman of the Hand, kissed her on both the good and the scarred cheek.

 

Surely Daenerys is aware of the rumors, of the horrible talk about Myrcella’s family, about her parentage, but she never calls her aught but Lady Baratheon.  She even offered Myrcella Storm’s End, and the girl spent a giddy evening imagining herself in the Stormlands, imagining herself as a great lady with her very own stronghold-  

 

And yet she found herself unable to sleep that night.  There was something so terribly wrong about it all- _it’s not really my birthright, it doesn’t belong to me..._

 

The next morning, she approached Daenerys and asked her to give the Stormlands to her cousin Shireen instead.  

 

When she sat down with Tyrion that night and revealed what she’d done, he patted her hand and told her that he is proud.  

 

She asked her uncle whether they would go to Casterly Rock together.  His mismatched eyes darkened when he told her that of course, she’d always be welcome to live at the Rock, but he’d spend so much time traveling, and there’s really no household to speak of anymore...”You’d be often alone.”

 

Myrcella wanted to laugh, wanted to tell her uncle that she doesn’t care about companionship, but they both knew that the more time she spent without contact, the worse her hearing and speech would become, and neither wished to take the risk.  

 

“Let me come with you.  When you travel, I can help, I can manage your servants and be almost like a squire...”

 

But Tyrion began to shake his head before she could even complete her thought.  “There are places I must go where you cannot follow, Myrcella.”

 

And then the anger, boiling in her blood, causing her jaw to tighten and her fists to clench- _so I am to be deserted, tossed aside, the broken, ugly abomination that no one wants, that no one cares to claim..._

 

She felt the sharp sting of tears in her eyes, and she breathed heavily in an effort to keep them down.  Tyrion waited for her expression to settle before he reached into his cloak and pulled out a folded piece of parchment.  It had been pressed shut with a direwolf seal, but someone had already loosened the wax to open the letter. Sliding the parchment across the table, he said,

 

“This arrived for you yesterday.  I think that you should consider it.”

 

A flash of pique- _he broke the seal, how dare he? -_ but it quickly passed.

 

Myrcella’s eyes scanned the words on the page, and she felt a bitter laugh rise into her throat.  “Really, uncle?” Tyrion only raised an eyebrow. She continued- “Sansa Stark is eighteen. I am fifteen.  And she thinks to take me in as her _ward_?”

 

“You’ll be more of a companion, really.  There are few women at Winterfell; most of her household is made up of men, soldiers...”  Tyrion’s gaze suddenly intensified, and Myrcella knew what he was thinking before he even had to speak.  At once she shook her head, golden curls brushing back and forth over her cheeks.

 

“I won’t.  I do not wish to go.”

 

“Myrcella.”  Tyrion pushed himself up in his seat until he nearly stood upright, leaning over the table to take her hand.  “We Lannisters are a dying breed- we’ve few kinsmen left. Believe me, I understand how you must feel-”

 

“No.  You don’t.”   _This is your solution, uncle?  Are you so eager to be rid of me, that you’d send me to_ **_him?_ **

 

Her lips became tense and strained, but she forced the words out, “He did not even ask for me...even if the idea was his...”   _I know that it wasn’t._

 

Tyrion said nothing, just stroked his stubby fingers over her long ones.  

 

She leaned into him, and her whisper was urgent- “Please let me come with you.”  She knew that his journeys would be plentiful and perilous; Daenerys Targaryen has no need for a Hand in a Tower, but rather one that will reach everywhere.    _But I would rather be with him, my uncle who loves me, who is absolutely, undoubtedly my_ **_uncle_ ** _..._

 

“I wish that you could.”  He tightened his grip on her hand, and he leaned so far forward that his knees nearly rested upon the table.  “You’re a brave girl. I’ve always thought you the true lion among your mother’s children...time to prove it now.”

 

Her jaw began to tremble, and she could feel the tears again; tears of frustration and anger and resignation.  And the question bubbling at her lips, striving for release:

 

_But what if I don’t want to be a lion?_

 

* * *

 

She agrees in the end.  There seems to be no other course of action; she does not wish to remain in the bizarre limbo of King’s Landing, she cannot rattle about the empty shell of Casterly Rock in solitude, and no matter how much she pleads or how ardently she begs, Tyrion will not yield.  

 

The small train assembles at the gates of King’s Landing, and Myrcella forces a smile when the Lady Brienne approaches her.  

 

“There’s a litter if you prefer, my lady, but it may go quicker if we keep to horseback.”  

 

“I’m not your lady, Brienne,” Myrcella retorts, immediately regretting the sharpness of her tone.  She smiles again, a genuine smile this time. “I am only Winterfell’s ward; you are to be one of the Commanders of the North.  It is you who outranks me.”

 

Brienne nods, but her cheeks flush with a bashful glow.  Myrcella lets her eyes wander to the scabbed, gnarled mess of scars that dominates Brienne’s face, and though she knows it to be childish and petty, she cannot help but think- _I don’t look so terrible as that._

 

Tyrion sees them off at the gate, and Myrcella kneels down to embrace her uncle.  

 

“She’ll be good to you, Myrcella.  She has a kind heart.” Myrcella marvels, not for the first time, over Tyrion’s gracious attitude toward his one-time wife.  In spite of the natural sharpness of his tongue, he never speaks of Sansa with anything but praise- _it certainly counts for something, that Tyrion thinks so highly of her._

 

Before they part, Tyrion hands Myrcella a scroll, which she opens once they’ve ridden past the gates of King’s Landing.  It is a missive signed by the Queen, granting safe passage to Lady Brienne of Tarth and Lady Myrcella Baratheon as they forge North to Winterfell, as authorized by Lady Sansa Stark, Warden of the North, and her Lord Commander, Ser Jaime Lannister.

 

Myrcella has not seen her mother’s twin in five years; the Lady of the North and her household did not appear at Daenerys’ coronation, a fact that remained the talk of King’s Landing for weeks after.  
  
“She doesn’t ever intend to leave the North,” Tyrion had explained.  “I think a part of her fears that if she comes south, she’ll never make it back again.”

  
And when she considers all of the facts, Myrcella really can’t fault Sansa for this decision.

 

But she finds that she can always, always fault Jaime.  For everything. When the rage comes upon her, the inexplicable, unstoppable anger that makes her want to thrash and kick and scream like a child throwing a tantrum, she unfailingly calls up his face in her mind to use as a target.  

 

_He killed Mother.  She loved him, needed him, counted on him, and he betrayed her._

 

Myrcella knows full well what sort of woman Cersei Lannister had been.  She knows of her mother’s dangerous, all-consuming ambition, knows of her recklessness, knows of her sins, too numerous to name.  

 

_But he sinned as she did, and yet he still lives while she is dead, dead by his hand..._

 

She’d expressed these feelings to Tyrion once or twice, and her uncle was always quick to tell her that no, it wasn’t the same- “Jaime can be foolish and weak, but Cersei...Cersei was something else...”

 

_But Uncle Tyrion never cared for Mother.  He spent most of his life hating her and worshipping Jaime; his opinion can’t be trusted._

 

She feels an unpleasant tension behind her eyes, accompanied by a tightening of her jaw.  Thinking of Jaime for too long often has such an effect (she wonders what it will be like when she’s forced to see him every day, forced to break bread with him... _I’ll grind my teeth down to powder, most likely...)_ , and so she decides to focus her reverie on Sansa instead.

 

When last she saw Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell was only a girl- a pretty, quiet, terrified girl at the mercy of Joffrey and his cruel whims.  Myrcella used to watch her, marvelling over her tragic beauty, and then would go off with her septa and draw pictures of her brother’s betrothed, with her russet hair and sad blue eyes, just as though she were a captive princess in a song.  The eyes were always her favorite part to draw, for she had a set of blue pencils in the most beautiful shades, vibrant enough to capture the bright hue of Sansa’s gaze. Tully eyes, eyes like her mother’s...

 

 _Like her brother’s._   

 

Although she’d been but a child of eight when she met Robb Stark, he’d made an indelible impression on her.   Handsome as a knight from a song, friendly and well-mannered, and yet so different from the Southron courtiers.  She remembered hearing stories of the North from her father, when he was in one of his more amiable moods; “They’ve a wildness about them, no matter how tame they seem.  It’s the wolf’s blood in their veins.” Even after they left Winterfell behind, Myrcella would dream of the young lord, would imagine herself beside him, swathed in furs, exploring the dense Northern forests in pursuit of the wolves.  Time passed, but the dream never left her; Robb Stark became an ideal, the perfect male specimen, an exalted figment of her imagination to which the reality could surely never compare.

 

(And yet, when she lies abed in the darkness and slips her fingers into her own smallclothes, she sometimes tries to bring Robb Stark’s face to mind, imagining his lean, muscled body over hers as she swirls her fingertips around her nub...but nothing ever comes of it. No real desire, no release.)

 

“Did you bring warm cloaks with you, my l- Myrcella?” While she surely asks the question at a booming volume, the hesitation in Brienne’s voice shakes Myrcella free of this dense thatch of thoughts. She blinks in Brienne’s direction, brows knit in a perplexed manner until the soon-to-be Lady Commander continues:

 

“I know that you’re accustomed to the warm climes of Dorne...but the North is much colder, especially now that winter's only just ended.”

 

Small talk clearly doesn’t come naturally to Brienne; she possesses none of the conversational grace of Arianne or Mother or Ellaria Sand ( _or Sansa…_ ). But her surprisingly-beautiful blue eyes contain genuine interest, and something about the guilelessness of her expression and the uncertain shyness of her tone softens Myrcella to her, if only just a little.

 

“Have you been to the North, Lady Brienne?” Myrcella inquires, and the knight beside her responds with several resolute nods.

 

“Yes, I traveled north with Lady Sansa to reclaim Winterfell. And then, Jaime and I stayed to help Lord Snow and Her Grace in their battle against the White Walkers.”

 

Myrcella doesn’t miss the smile that brushes across Brienne’s lips when she utters her kinsman’s name, nor does she miss the faint flush that rises on the other woman’s cheeks. She feels her own fingers clench on her horse’s reins as sour fury seeps into her bloodstream- _she cares for him, desires him, perhaps even loves him. Doesn’t she realize that he brings only misery to those foolish enough to give him their regard?_

 

She wants to halt their progress and draw Lady Brienne into the woods, to explain to her that the Kingslayer is, as everyone’s always said, a man wholly without honor, that she shouldn’t waste any of her kindness or affection on him, that he deserves nothing from her- nothing from either of them- but disdain.

But instead, she rides on in silence, waiting for her rage to distill and travel up into her one remaining ear, burning until the flesh and cartilage glows crimson.

 

_She’ll never give him her disdain…_

 

_Mine will have to be enough for both of us._

 


	2. Chapter 2

Snowfall in King’s Landing typically involved only the lightest dusting of white particles upon the cobblestone streets and castle courtyards and a wet, unpleasant slush along the docks. But north of the Neck, dense sheets and mounds coat every surface, every tree branch, every stretch of road. Although their caravan includes nearly two-dozen riders and five heavily-loaded wagons, the snow muffles the hoof falls and wheel scrapes, enveloping the landscape in a pure, still, and unblemished silence. 

 

Of course, Myrcella does find herself wondering whether the silence is truly so thorough after all- perhaps the travelers with unmarred hearing don’t experience it quite this way. But it’s beautiful, this clean nothingness, and for perhaps the first time since the removal of her ear, she feels oddly fortunate for the ability to hover in this realm far removed from useless chatter and clattering armor and the constant noise of being alive. 

 

Lady Brienne seems hardly more comfortable with the bitter Northern temperatures than Myrcella herself; her jaw wobbles, her teeth chatter, and her ears glow a vibrant crimson. But she maintains her flawless posture on horseback, her extraordinary blue eyes shining with determination. And not for the first time, Myrcella finds herself transfixed by this peculiar warrior woman; men call her “Brienne the Beauty” with cruel smirks on their faces and acidic derision in their tones, but she sees the strength in Brienne’s jaw, the noble grace of her every movement, the shyness of her smile. _Beauty is worth so little in comparison._ ..she wishes for the fortitude to apply this philosophy to her own reflection in the mirror. _Maybe one day._

 

“Tell me of Lady Sansa.” Myrcella urges her mount forward to keep pace with Brienne’s destrier as she awaits the knight’s response.

 

“She is a great lady. Kind and fair and generous, devoted to her land and the people within it.”

 

It’s a generic response, the sort to be expected of any sworn sword. Her desire to delve beneath the facade of courtesy compels Myrcella to lean closer, her voice adopting a conspiratorial tone: “You needn’t sweeten your words for my sake. I haven’t seen Sansa in years, and I’m only looking for an honest opinion of the woman who’ll have me in her safekeeping. You can tell me what you truly think.”

 

“That _is_ what I truly think.” The sudden sharpness of Brienne’s voice takes her quite by surprise; she blinks rapidly in the other woman’s direction, awaiting the continuation of her thoughts. “I swore myself to her mother, Lady Catelyn, long before I ever laid eyes on Lady Sansa. I made an oath to find and protect a frightened little girl...but the woman I found...she deserves an army, she deserves a kingdom...she deserves a _throne_ .” Myrcella watches, mesmerized, as Brienne struggles to heave a full breath into her lungs, clearly in the vain hope that she can steady her pulsing heartbeat. “I have killed for her. And I would _gladly_ die for her.”

 

The words are impressive, and if uttered by a less-genuine individual, they’d reek of falsehood, of the performative nature of chivalry. But from Brienne, they sing with conviction, reverberating with a purity that quite overwhelms. As she rides alongside the lady knight, Myrcella feels a desperate desire to clutch her large, battle-hardened hand, that she might absorb some of that clean, impeccable faith through the lacing of fingers and the pressing of palms. 

 

But she knows how unsolicited touches rankle Brienne’s nerves, so she only flashes her a brilliant smile, offering the Maid of Tarth full view of her scarred cheek ( _she shan’t judge me for it...she knows what it is, to be dismissed and rejected for the lack of a pretty face_ ). “I’m glad to know it. Makes me feel better about this northward move.”

 

Brienne’s eyes fully land on her for the first time since they began their trek toward Winterfell; she appreciates the straight-on view of her companion’s eyes ( _anyone could fall into them, could lose himself-_ **_herself_ ** _\- in their depths_ ), but she’s confused by the yearning gleam.

 

But it all becomes clear when Brienne speaks again, her voice tremulous and laden with emotion: “You really do look like him.”

 

A huff of breath through clogged nostrils, and she spurs her mount on, keen on any excuse to put physical distance between herself, the Maid of Tarth, and Brienne’s saccharine, precious, ridiculous beliefs about her accursed uncle. 

 

* * *

 

 

Ser Jaime Lannister isn’t at Winterfell when the King’s Landing contingent arrives. “He’s beyond the Wall treating with the wildlings,” Winterfell’s kindly young maester, Samwell Tarly, explains to Brienne and the rest of the small party. “But Lady Sansa is ready to receive you, once you’ve settled in a bit.”

 

 _Of course he’d make himself scarce._ When she was a child, her mother used to tell her and Tommen fantastical stories about her valiant uncle, always emphasizing his incredible, unmatched bravery. _And yet, he’s too craven to meet his flesh-and-blood relation upon her arrival in this dismal, frigid wasteland._

 

The corridors of Winterfell hold an ancient sort of dignity...but the dark, cavernous, freezing castle bears absolutely no similarities to the places she knows. Upon arriving in her designated chambers, she immediately drops to her knees on the soft bear-pelt rug before the hearth and leans in as far as she can, accepting the particles of ash that waft into her nostrils and stain her skirts as a worthy trade for the direct, invigorating warmth.

 

It’s an attractive bedroom. Less austere than the rest of the castle, her chamber contains silken bedclothes, a well-appointed vanity, even a vase of blossoms native to the south. Her lips twist as she considers how Sansa managed to find these blooms in this frigid land- _does she pay riders to gallop at top speed from below the Neck, simply for the sake of ‘making things pretty’?_

 

Before her thoughts can plunge into dark nether regions and her contempt can calcify, Myrcella distracts herself by asking a silent maidservant to lace her into a finer dress, an expensive frock worthy of presentation before the Warden of the North. 

 

Lady Sansa chooses to receive her not in the vast Great Hall, but instead in her own solar. She instantly notices the warmth; Lady of Winter she may be, but Sansa Stark clearly took something away from her time in the south- namely, a fondness for gentle temperatures. When she allows her eyes to scan the chamber, Myrcella finds herself bemused by Lady Sansa’s decorative choices. Trinkets litter each surface, each clear patch of wall- a silver hairnet festooned with amethysts (albeit missing one prominent stone), a bloodied scrap of white fabric that bizarrely resembles the material used in the Kingsguard cloaks, a polished obsidian figurine in the shape of a mockingbird.

 

Sansa moves like a personified breeze, steps small and elegant and sure. The dim candlelight accentuates the finely-wrought curves of her cheeks, the flawless geometry of her nose, the width and luminescence of her blue, blue eyes. She looks for all the world like a wood nymph from a book of fairy stories…

 

...but the still, weighted, nearly-solemn appraisal evident in her expression somewhat spoils the illusion. 

 

But the heaviness rises as quickly as it befell, replaced with a bright smile and a toss of rich red curls. “Welcome to Winterfell, Lady Myrcella,” she says in a tone of clear warmth- no pandering, no simpering, no signs of pity. Myrcella nods her acknowledgement, and when Sansa makes no move to embrace her, she finds herself shaken by a burst of affront. _I’m too ghastly, too monstrous to touch, my lady?_

 

And then, she catches a glimpse of her reflection in the frosted window behind the solar table- shoulders tucked, arms crossed, defensive brackets erected around body and soul. _She respects your space,_ she realizes in an instant, and the novelty of such consideration feels quite perplexing.

 

“I thank you for allowing me into your home, Lady Sansa. I apologize for the imposition...but my uncle speaks highly of you, and I look forward to discovering the majesty of the North for myself.” _Stiff, courteous, simple. All that can be expected._

 

Sansa takes a single step forward - still thoroughly maintaining boundaries- and shakes her russet head. “You don’t need to do that.”

 

“Do what?”

 

“Pretend that you’re pleased to be here.” It’s a strange, abrupt, direct statement, and Myrcella lacks a ready response. Fortunately, Sansa sees fit to continue- “I know that you didn’t choose this. And believe me...I know all too well how it feels to find oneself in an unfamiliar land, without anything to anchor you to your home or your past-”

 

“-I don’t have a home anymore.” She doesn’t intend to snap, but she can’t claim any real penitence when she does it, either. “Dorne is dust. King’s Landing belongs to the dragons. Casterly Rock...is empty. There’s nothing for me there. There’s nothing for me anywhere.”

 

“I’m not sure that’s true.” Sansa breezes past Myrcella to tend to the waning flames in the hearth; the responsibility of a servant, to be sure, but the Lady of Winterfell seems to take pleasure in tending the flames on her own, in watching the hot, brilliant plumes rise. A subtle fragrance wafts behind her- something reminiscent of the thick pine woods surrounding the castle, but also spiked with a familiar scent, a trace of citrus and bloom…

 

“And it’s worth considering the benefits of having nothing to anchor, of having nothing to lose.” 

 

The words hit Myrcella with the force of a deluge, soft and impenetrable all at once. She wants to sit, and the cushioned chairs littered throughout the solar beckon her with their beguiling velveteen pillows-

 

But she remains in place, back straight and head held aloft. “Perhaps you’re right, my lady.” 

 

Sansa smiles, a clean expression devoid of derision or mockery. “I know that this won’t ever be your home, Myrcella. But I hope that you may find something here...something worth keeping.”

 

Before Myrcella can formulate a response, Sansa crosses to a nearly-indistinguishable door on the far wall, concealed so expertly that Myrcella would never have noticed it on her own. “Will you take a walk with me? There's a section of the castle that I think you may like...it's a bit of a jaunt, but worth the effort.”

 

Curiosity puckers Myrcella’s brow, and she nods her assent. Sansa guides her through a narrow passageway, opening into a solar chamber of a similar size to Sansa’s own. This solar, however, lacks the Lady of Winterfell’s fastidious tidiness; parchment strewn about carelessly, weapons scattered on floor and table, mismatched pieces of armor and mail crowding every seat.

 

“Your uncle’s solar,” Sansa explains, although Myrcella can already see Jaime Lannister in every crevice, every overpacked surface, each section of mess, of disarray. 

 

“You keep him close by,” Myrcella snaps rather more sharply than she intends. She’s not sure what she intends with this statement- perhaps she means to warn Sansa of Jaime’s fickle loyalties? Perhaps she only wishes to hear the evidence of her own disgust, to bring it into the room, to give it air and space to grow and flourish like weeds conquering a garden. The confines of her mind no longer feel sufficient- her loathing deserves more territory than she alone can provide. 

 

“You question that choice?” There’s nothing accusatory or confrontational in Sansa’s tone; just a simple inquiry, light enough to seem wholly innocuous.

 

(Were Myrcella Baratheon a stupider girl, she might accept the harmlessness on its face. But she’s seen too much. That sort of naivety hasn’t any place, not here, not now.)

 

“I think you know what he’s capable of.” The air feels colder and thinner when she takes a deep inhale; it stings her throat, and she welcomes the harshness. “If I may ask, my lady…”

 

“You may ask anything you like,” Sansa replies, as moonlight spills through the window casement and limns her body with a ghostly glow. “Of course, I can’t promise that I’ll answer.”

 

“What is he to you? Or, rather...what are _you_ to _him_ ?” _Perhaps she’s taken him as a lover...she wouldn’t be the first woman of influence to make such a fool mistake._  

 

“I am his lady, and he is my sworn sword. Whatever else I may be to him...well, I suppose that’s a question you can present to him in person upon his return.”

 

She doesn’t deign to explain the particulars of Jaime’s place in her household, in her advisory council, in her life and in her heart. Myrcella finds herself quite surprised by Sansa’s easy avoidance- she’s slippery, elusive-

 

_Masterful._

 

Their brief stopover in Jaime’s solar ends with a procession into another corridor, then another, then another. It’s a strange castle, Winterfell- webs upon webs, passages secluded from the naked eye, cavernous chambers and expansive halls, contradictions existing within the same sphere, within the same ancient stone walls.

 

Finally, the women find themselves in a glass-enclosed gazebo, a structure flooded with uncanny warmth. 

 

“These are the glass gardens,” Sansa tells Myrcella, a similarly-uncanny warmth sparkling in the blue of her eyes. “The hot springs warm them...my mother used to love to spend time here.”

 

“Is that a lemon tree?” Myrcella abruptly exclaims, dashing across the garden chamber to wrap her fingers around a sun-colored fruit.

 

“Yes,” Sansa laughs. “Southron crops can’t grow this far north...save the ones living within these walls.”

 

Without asking Sansa’s leave, Myrcella yanks a lemon from a low-hanging branch, immediately pressing her nose to the skin and inhaling the citrus fragrance. 

 

Memories rush through the cloudy space within her skull- Elia and Nym squeezing lemons onto her and Tyene’s hair, assuring them that the sun would “set their heads alight”, the kiss Tyene pressed to Myrcella’s lips on one hot Dornish afternoon, her mouth flavored with lemon cordial, the scent of lemons and rosewater on her mother’s skin as she gathered Myrcella to her breast, all soft and gentle and sweet in a way she hardly believed Cersei Lannister capable of behaving-

 

A knot lances in her throat, too stubborn and solid to choke down without the threat of tears. She hastens to turn her body toward the wall, hoping to conceal her own weakness from Sansa’s serene stare-

 

But the Lady of Winterfell moves closer, a finely-wrought wooden basket clutched in one tiny hand. She extends the basket in Myrcella’s direction, her voice entirely free of judgement as she says, “Take as many as you’d like.”

 

She accepts the basket from her companion, and when Lady Sansa’s slender fingers brush against Myrcella’s own, she’s quite surprised by the tingling in her extremities, the urgent pounding of her heart against her eardrums.

 

 

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
